


in the street lights (you are my stage)

by coppertears



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, indie radio dj, street dancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-14 01:04:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7145774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coppertears/pseuds/coppertears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>at dawn he dances to a voice on the radio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the street lights (you are my stage)

  
**in the street lights (you are my stage)**  
kai/kyungsoo  
pg-13  
at dawn he dances to a voice on the radio.

jongin crashes into his bed past the time when half the world's asleep, his body still locked in motion and his heart on the verge of slipping away. with his eyes closed, he creates images of a dream world far beyond his reach -- a world where he can dance till the night gives out and the planets have gone through a hundred revolutions. sometimes it's suffocating when his bones collapse and his muscles ache, and when he tries to move them it's like someone's hit pause without his knowing. he can't undo it, he can't fight it, so jongin drags himself back home with a soul that's yearning to break free.

on nights when he strains against gravity and broken body clocks, jongin thinks he can waltz with the stars while the wind creates music that's too silent for anyone else to hear. but the spell breaks and he remembers that he's human, that his feet belong to the ground and nowhere else, and jongin lets his pretenses fall down.

he's always been three steps away from insanity.

so in the dark he lets himself be tugged under waves of exhaustion, ears pricked for that precise moment when his body catches up to his soul and he can dance again.

 

 

 

 

under blushing skies, jongin carries his boom box and trudges through roads where people get lost. he never thinks about where to go -- he's not a permanent fixture and he's not meant to be tied down to one place. so he wanders until he gets tired, and wherever he stops that's where he'll work his own brand of magic.

this time he's at the heart of the city, caught in between stop signs and traffic lights and cars that are always in a hurry to escape, and jongin thinks it's just perfect. he sets down his boom box and stretches, a tiny figure against a landscape of chaos, and at that moment the sun chooses to peek at him from behind the clouds. he jumps once, twice. then he kicks the box and it comes alive, music and beats and rhythm marching out of the speakers and dispersing into the air.

and in less than a heartbeat, jongin is a street dancer who tells stories using his body. he paints love with his hands and screams out fear with his chest, and a few miles along the way his feet begin to speak of running until everything else just disappears. this is something he does every day before the dew evaporates off the grass, and before the city is clogged up with people who are far too busy to stop for a glimpse of beauty. this is dawn at its finest, jongin thinks, and he isn't wrong.

he likes to think that he's part of the city's waking routine, that he's somehow the reason for why curtains open and alarms ring. people straggle by, heading for their beds after a night of letting go, and the sight of jongin makes them hesitate. but soon the music trickles down to a faint pulse, and jongin smiles at the onlookers as sweat leaves him with a sheen of satisfaction. he kicks the boom box and the music crawls back in, and he hauls it up while his feet retrace the path he's taken to get here.

he's finished telling the story for the day, and it leaves him feeling content. the people pick up from where they've left off, their minds once again pointing towards home, but in the spaces between neurons and gray matter they store the vignette of a boy who moonwalks at dawn.

everyone has heard of him.

 

 

 

 

his street dancing begins a week after he stumbles upon a private radio broadcast. in this city it's possible to obtain your own frequency if you have the money, talent and technological skill. they're not always for public consumption though -- often they hide behind sound waves that are hard to pick up and come back to, and sometimes jongin wonders what the purpose is of even doing the broadcast in the first place.

"it's because they want to get out their music and their words," yixing tells him when jongin voices his thoughts. "and they're willing to share those, but not necessarily to everyone just yet. little baby steps. once they feel confident they can move on to commercial networks."

jongin thinks about that too much on an uneventful tuesday. that's why he fiddles with the dials, trying to see if he'll come across someone's feelings left to hang on air. at first he gets crackles and static, but he catches on to the vaguest hint of a song through the cracks, and jongin frantically keeps turning the dials until the song grows clearer.

the reception's bad and it's not really the best quality, but the voice he hears on the radio is beautiful. and the consecutive songs are beautiful, too -- there's a tint of prettiness on the sounds that limp their way out, and jongin waits for the broadcaster to say his name. but throughout the nine nights of rushing home to listen to the broadcast, jongin never once hears him speak. he only sings, and jongin starts getting this urge to share this story in his own way.

so on the tenth night he buys a recorder and records the voice that he's grown fond of, and he tweaks it until the crackles and static and obscure interferences are gone. when the audio's clean he clears out a space in his bedroom and starts dancing, trying to figure out which movement of the arm suits a certain part, and the next day he's on a street corner with his boom box.

word spreads about the boy who never stays in one place, and jongin wishes that somehow the broadcaster will be watching him. when he moves from area to area it's always with the faint hope that the broadcaster's maybe right around the bend, and jongin wants him to see the dance and recognize his own song playing, and he wishes they can sit down together and talk.

it hasn't happened yet, but jongin doesn't give up easily.

 

 

the broadcast begins at a quarter to seven. jongin knows this because he's been tuned to that channel for a long time now, and he's not about to miss it. but today he's forced to take on another hour for his night shift at the restaurant because they're lacking a waiter, and jongin curses huang zitao to the depths of hell. it crosses his mind that maybe zitao is sick, so jongin tries to push away his irritation to a corner but the pout on his lips still forms. if he can't get away before the broadcast starts, he won't be able to create new choreography and make a recording of the newest songs.

so as he juggles plates and calms down irate customers, jongin watches the minutes tick away. he doubles the speed of his work and hopes he'll get everything done so that it won't even be necessary for him to stay one more hour. but his hopes are dashed when there is a last-minute rush and three new groups arrive, and jongin resigns himself to missing out on the broadcast for the first time. and, as a consequence, he can't dance on the streets tomorrow.

"you okay?" minseok asks him as they brush by each other. he has a full tray in his hands and customers to serve, but minseok risks three seconds to check if jongin's fine. right now jongin's face is hard to draw, and darkness seems to settle over his expression.

"yeah, i just didn't expect i'd have to stay longer," jongin says with a slight tilt of his lips that's so forced, he might as well not have tried at all.

"we'll be closing soon. hold on for a little while." minseok pats his head, and the three seconds are up and he returns to serving his customers.

jongin is powerless. but acting like a stormcloud means he might lose his job, so he sucks it up and ignores the clock that seems to be taunting him. when he's allowed to go it's half past six and he'll never get home in time. he has a bus ride to take and several miles to walk, and in his head jongin apologizes to the broadcaster. tomorrow he won't be able to do what he usually does. it feels like he's letting two people down instead of just one.

outside the skies threaten to cry, and jongin pulls his coat closer around himself. his steps patter on the sidewalk until he reaches the bus stop, and by then the first few drops are falling down to the ground. at this time of night the stop's a little crowded, people's faces lined with exhaustion, and jongin joins them. everyone just wants to go home.

he thinks of songs he won't hear and moments he can't translate to reality. there is a sigh that lodges itself at the very bottom of jongin's rib cage, and up and up it climbs, until it's escaping through his padlocked lips.

the bus arrives at fifty past six. jongin wishes he's not so conscious of time but he can't help it. he's one of the last ones in, and the only seat he can find is beside a guy who's more interested in the world outside the window. jongin walks over to the guy and taps his shoulder. the guy turns his head, and at once jongin is reminded of an owl because this guy has eyes that are larger than usual.

"mind if i sit here?" he asks.

the guy continues to stare at him. jongin starts feeling self-conscious, wondering if maybe in his hurry he hadn't wiped off the chili sauce that had stained his cheek earlier, but he keeps his hands in his pockets. "i don't bite," he tries. "i just need to sit down."

the guy nods his head, and jongin's not sure if it means he can sit. "i can't take this seat?"

a hand pats the empty seat with so much vigor, and jongin laughs a little at the urgency lurking behind the guy's irises. he looks like a little boy who wants to make a friend on a school trip.

"you could have just told me," jongin murmurs as he sits down.

the guy frowns a little, and it's like he's struggling with something. then he pulls out a phone, types a message, and he shows it to jongin: **i can't speak**.

jongin's struck dumb. for a moment he flounders, trying to figure out what to say without offending this stranger. "you're mute?" he blurts out, and immediately he wants to knock himself out for being so blunt.

a tiny smile inches up the guy's heart-shaped lips, and he doesn't seem offended. he shows jongin a new line of text. **you can say that, yes.**

"oh. i'm sorry."

 **don't be**. the message disappears and another one takes its place. **my name's kyungsoo. what's yours?**

jongin turns the name over in his head. _kyungsoo_. somehow he thinks it suits this delicate figurine of a boy who looks like he's too cold despite the sweater he's wearing. "i'm jongin."

 **you look sad** , kyungsoo types. **why is that?**

sometimes sadness clings to a person without leaving any sign that it's there, and jongin wonders what he looks like right now for kyungsoo to notice it immediately. he watches the phone's screen flicker, taking in the pixelated characters that form a question he doesn't know how to answer, and jongin wishes there's an easier way to express how you feel. dancing is his medium, and when he's confined to his seat like this he can't quite find the words he needs.

so he stumbles his way through it. "i'm missing something, you see," he says, his shoulders sagging. "there's this radio broadcast i listen to every night, but tonight i'm running late and i don't think i can catch it. this is the first time i'll miss it."

kyungsoo's eyebrows knit themselves together. **why is it so important to you?**

and jongin wonders, _why_? he knows it's not simply because of the dance. it's not just the novelty of it, and it's not a routine either -- it's not a habit he can't break, a constant destination he can't skip. he thinks it may have something to do with the broadcaster's voice itself, the art contained within timbre and tone and vocal range, and the way he sings like every song is a piece of himself. there's something in that voice that jongin loves, and there's something about the person owning it, and jongin just wants to listen to that broadcast over and over again until he finally gets to meet the broadcaster.

"i don't know," he says, and it's true. he doesn't know. there are not enough words and actions that can encapsulate his thoughts, not enough ways to explain why it's important. it just _is_. and there are times when things don't need an explanation -- they happen because they happen, and the _who_ or _what_ or _why_ won't matter in the long run. "i don't know."

kyungsoo holds his gaze for a few seconds. **what is this broadcast like?**

"it's a personal one," jongin says, his hands twisting through the air like they always do when he's trying to say so many things at once. "i stumbled upon it when i was messing around with my radio. there's no segments or talking or anything, just this guy singing song after song until it's half past seven."

 **you seem to like it so much.** kyungsoo looks like he's contemplating jongin's words.

jongin nods. he wonders if kyungsoo listens to that broadcast too, if he comes home hurtling through the doors just to make it in time. then he remembers that he's riding a bus, and kyungsoo's nice but he's still a stranger, and jongin wants to scream at himself because he's not supposed to be sharing stuff like this.

kyungsoo settles back into his seat and returns to watching the raindrops race down the glass. jongin thinks of how he doesn't have an umbrella and that he'll have to brave this downpour, and he almost curses out loud because he always forgets to bring the necessary things.

when the headlights of the bus illuminate a familiar street sign, jongin nudges kyungsoo. "it's going to be my stop soon. thanks for the, um, company," he says. he's not quite sure why he has to do this, but they'd talked and jongin doesn't want to leave it at just being strangers following their respective paths back home.

kyungsoo's eyes widen before he taps on his phone once again. he shows it to jongin and there's only one word: **stay.**

jongin blinks, not quite believing what he sees, and he stares at kyungsoo. "why?"

 **just. stay.** kyungsoo lowers his eyes. **i have something that i need to show you.**

"but i have to go," jongin says, feeling conflicted as the bus draws nearer to his stop.

there is an exhale as kyungsoo taps out another message. the bus halts and people start standing up, and jongin should really join them. but kyungsoo seems to sense this because the moment jongin rises, the other boy's hand is clamped around jongin's wrist.

**i know who your broadcaster is.**

jongin stills. he swallows down the obvious questions rising out of his vocal chords, and he says, "he's not _my_ broadcaster."

there is a knowing glimmer in kyungsoo's eyes.. **you speak of him like he's yours. but you do want to meet him, right?**

"yes," jongin says, the answer so natural and familiar that he doesn't even think of repressing it. he sways as the bus begins to move, and he has a vague notion of missing his stop.

**i know where he is. i can take you him.**

"why are you helping me?" jongin asks. he reclaims his seat because he's pretty much decided to stick with kyungsoo, and maybe there's a trap somewhere in the promise of getting to know the broadcaster, but jongin finds that he doesn't really care. it should alarm him, the way he trusts kyungsoo so readily, like he's known him for a long time -- and with those soulful eyes, kyungsoo is light years away from being mistaken for a criminal.

kyungsoo smiles, and jongin's pretty sure that kyungsoo can tell him to jump off the bus and he'd still be willing to do so. **because i think you've been finding him for a long time, and he'll be glad to know someone like you.**

so jongin takes his eyes off of the screen and looks at kyungsoo, and maybe there is a lie spun somewhere in that angelic facade, but wherever it's hidden jongin can't find it. in life, sometimes you have to be blind to your instincts. it's dangerous and stupid and so, so careless, but for some strange reason jongin believes in kyungsoo.

"okay then."

 

 

 

 

by the time the bus arrives at the very last stop, kyungsoo and jongin are the only ones headed for the end of the line. jongin knows this is a neglected part of the city. it's not a ghetto, and it's not a place where evil lingers in every corner, but it's a place for the dead and the dying. it's where people get stuck and they can't find a way out, and for eternity they live in cycles of waking up and falling asleep to monotony. it's a place where nothing grows, where apathy is nurtured and imagination is forced out, and not for one second does jongin believe that this is where his mysterious broadcaster lives.

he thinks of running away the moment they alight from the bus, but then kyungsoo gives him a gentle tap on the shoulder and jongin can't find it in himself to leave when he's not given this a chance. maybe he's a little desperate, maybe he's chasing after the ghost of a person who may not be what jongin expects him to be. but he follows kyungsoo through the empty streets, taking care not to slip on the rain-soaked pavement.

"are you sure he's here?" jongin asks, tilting his head in confusion as they pass rows of houses that look the same. they're too uniform, too similar, and in this environment he can't imagine how someone can think of songs that come to life in hidden frequencies. creativity starts in a place where ideas float in freedom, and in this neighborhood of sighs jongin isn't reminded of any of the music he's heard from the broadcast.

 **he always is** , kyungsoo types into his phone. **in a way, this place defines him**.

"but it's so dark and i...his broadcast is always lively, and his music always sings of things that shine in the half-light, of finding hope when it's lost, of love walking into people's doors. i just can't think of him existing in a place like this." and jongin can't see it, he can't see this place as the origin of the broadcast he always rushes home to hear, and the atmosphere is starting to pull at the strings of his soul. _wrong, wrong, wrong._

but there's a flicker of hope still remaining in the embers of his chest, and it's the reason why jongin keeps walking forward instead of turning around and bidding kyungsoo goodbye. at the very least he's made a _sort of, kind of, maybe_ friend who can't speak but who thinks of things that he tries to record in his phone. and it's a kind of sharing between two people that's stilted and it doesn't quite make sense, but jongin will take it because there is something lovely about kyungsoo's smile when you don't let him down.

**why not? maybe he makes that kind of music to brighten up a place like this. maybe he sings those songs in order to dispel the sadness in the air.**

jongin raises his eyebrow. "you seem to know him well."

kyungsoo nods his head and jongin doesn't quite understand that gesture, doesn't quite know what it means, but he keeps his lips shut. they're walking under stars and a crescent moon, and jongin thinks that the skies are prettiest at night when there's no one watching.

"what's it like, being not able to speak?" jongin asks, trying to keep speculations out of his head.

kyungsoo's eyebrows crease as he thinks of how to answer. then: **it's being caged. trapped. you think of so many things that you can't express, and sound escapes you when you need it most. at the same time it's therapeutic because you choose your words more carefully, and you don't waste your breath on words that go nowhere.** jongin feels dizzy as kyungsoo's messages flash by so fast, but he thinks he gets the gist of it.

in a way he can relate to that. jongin doesn't speak much either -- what he wants to say, he expresses with his body. and it's funny how a twitch of the hand and a twist of the leg can tell the tale of a boy in pain, but jongin's always been dependent on choreography that is both powerful and meaningful.

that's why he's a street dancer who performs to the tune of a disembodied voice on the radio. that's why he's searching for the owner of that voice tonight, instead of heading home and wrapping himself in sheets and waking up with a feeling of desolation because he'd missed the broadcast.

kyungsoo tugs on his arm. **let's stop by my house first. i need to get something.**

jongin's too tired to raise his guards. fatigue burrows into his spine in a way that stops him from building walls, and he thinks he should be alarmed by the prospect of going inside a stranger's house. this is a tango of uncertainty through the unknown, and for once jongin's not ready to lead.

kyungsoo pushes open the door of a house where the lights are still alive, and jongin is hit by a lot of white before he registers the shapes of the furniture inside. then he blinks and his vision clears, and from the kitchen a tall guy emerges.

"kyungsoo!" the guy says. then his eyes settle on jongin and they widen, and suddenly he's tripping over tiles towards them. "i saw you dancing yesterday!"

jongin flushes. "i, uh, yeah."

"i've been trying to catch you for weeks," the guy babbles on. "i first saw you near the city park, and then i found out that you never really stayed in one place so i coudn't go and see you again."

"i try to transfer locations," jongin says with a sheepish smile.

"obviously," the guy says. he sticks out his hand. "i'm chanyeol, kyungsoo's roommate."

"i'm jongin." they shake hands, and jongin notices kyungsoo's frown. he must have been a little left out, and it amazes jongin that kyungsoo lives with a chatterbox. he'd been expecting a more silent companion for kyungsoo.

"so why are you here?" chanyeol asks, beckoning for the three of them to sit down. kyungsoo and jongin end up on the sofa while chanyeol occupies the armchair.

"you know those songs i dance to?" jongin begins, and chanyeol nods his head with so much enthusiasm that it looks like his head is going to fall off. "well, i got them from a private radio broadcast. i met kyungsoo on the bus and he told me he could bring me to the broadcaster."

chanyeol blinks. "but you've --" he cuts off his words with a glance at kyungsoo, and for a moment there is a conversation threaded through the air. then chanyeol frowns, kyungsoo looks down at his feet, and the moment passes. "well, i can accompany you guys, i guess. i mean it's nearly 10, and you probably need another companion."

kyungsoo jumps to his feet then, and without a single explanation he pulls chanyeol towards the kitchen. chanyeol mouths what looks like a _we'll be back_ and jongin's left to stare at blank walls. the house doesn't look like it contains memories -- it feels like a shell, like it serves only as a temporary stopover that's forgotten in the long run.

"okay, let's go," chanyeol chirps as he and kyungsoo come out of the kitchen, and jongin stands up. he has a whirlwind of thoughts and no right to say them, and as they leave jongin wonders how many goodbyes permeate the rooms of this house.

he can't help but think that this town is full of things that are left behind.

 

 

 

 

they climb up to a building resting on the peak of a hill, and jongin's heart starts beating faster when he sees orange hues spilling out of the topmost floor's windows. kyungsoo seems to sense this because he pats jongin's back, and chanyeol laughs as he says, "you're in luck, jongin-ah!"

the lower floors are lit only by emergency lights and a handful of naked bulbs hanging by fraying wires, and jongin treads the floor with care. kyungsoo's phone is out and he taps out an encouraging **you'll get to see him soon, jongin-ah, so don't trip!** on the screen. chanyeol skips his way through the dark corridors like he's been here one too many times, and jongin starts thinking _what if_? but from the second chanyeol had spoken jongin had known it wasn't him, so he holds on to that and wonders what the broadcaster will be like.

when they get to the top floor it's a sudden burst of clarity that zaps jongin's nerves, and he screws his eyes shut. and then he hears a melody meandering through the corridors, and it sounds so familiar that jongin's running past doors and potted plants without a backward glance. he stops in front of an open door at the end of the hallway just when the melody stops.

there is a boy sitting in the middle of the room, pretty fingers strumming the strings of a guitar, and he looks up to see a paralyzed jongin standing in the doorway. jongin waits for him to speak -- for the boy to open his mouth and release the voice that jongin's been searching for, been dancing to for the past few weeks.

"who are you?" the boy asks, and it hits jongin like a bullet aimed at his heart.

this boy isn't the broadcaster.

maybe kyungsoo had gotten it wrong. maybe he thought that jongin and he had been thinking of the same person, of the same broadcast, when in fact they were thinking of different things.

"jongin-ah," a deep voice says behind him, and jongin turns to see chanyeol's gentle smile. "i see you've met baekhyunnie."

jongin hears the _thunk_ of a guitar being put down. he hears the boy scrambling to his feet, and in a flash the boy is a ball of happiness running straight into chanyeol's arms.

"what took you so long?" baekhyun says, pouting. "where's kyungsoo?"

chanyeol chuckles. "never mind that. i'd like to introduce you to jongin, baekhyunnie."

baekhyun faces jongin with a thousand-watt smile, and maybe baekhyun isn't the person he's looking for but he still seems like a nice person. "you're the dancer who uses the music played in the broadcast?"

"i -- i think we're talking about two different broadcasts," jongin says, feeling a little down.

baekhyun's grin just grows wider. "no, we're talking about the same broadcast," he says with certainty. he and chanyeol then pull jongin further into the room, guiding him to a radio sitting in the corner.

"it's past the usual time of the broadcast, but the broadcaster hadn't been able to come home in time either," chanyeol says, fiddling with dials as jongin looks on in confusion.

"so you're not the broadcaster?" he asks baekhyun.

"me? of course not," baekhyun says, and he laughs with a husky tone that's still pretty even if it's not what jongin is looking for.

the radio crackles to life, and for a brief second there's just static filling the space. then a tune starts up and a voice pours out the speakers the way it always has, and jongin's smack-dab in the middle of a tornado that he can't get out of. it feels like beauty is being woven into his very soul, and he wants to dance but right now his heart's telling him that the broadcaster is near.

"who is he?" jongin whispers, not wanting to drown out this voice.

"you've met him already, jongin-ah," chanyeol answers, his volume just as low.

jongin stands up."fifth door on your left," baekhyun calls after him as he runs out the room, feet pounding on the floor. _stupid_ , he chastises himself. _stupid stupid stupid_.

he bursts into a recording studio and sees kyungsoo behind the glass. but instead of silence spilling out his lips, it's chocolate melting down vibratos and vocal runs. it's a voice containing so many nuances and intricacies that are hard to explain and beautiful to listen to, and it's a voice that croons words of sweetness through sound waves.

he doesn't know when he slides down to the ground and closes his eyes. he doesn't know how long he stays in that position, listening to kyungsoo's songs. it sounds better when he's not chasing frequencies, when he's just here in the same space, when everything is clear and not muffled by interferences in the signal.

when the music stops, jongin opens his eyes and watches kyungsoo turn off the equipment. the shorter boy walks toward him.

"hey," jongin says, his voice cracking just a tiny bit.

kyungsoo smiles. "hey."

 

 

 

 

"so why did you say you were mute?" jongin asks as they walk back to kyungsoo's house, chanyeol and baekhyun walking a few miles ahead.

kyungsoo shakes his head. "i didn't say i was mute _exactly_ , i just said that i couldn't speak."

"same difference."

kyungsoo shoots him an amused glance. "do you really think i haven't seen you dance?"

jongin stops. he hadn't counted on that. he hadn't thought that kyungsoo was among the faces watching him -- maybe he'd hoped for it, but he hadn't thought it was possible.

kyungsoo links hands with jongin like it's perfectly natural for him to do so, and he half-drags jongin along. "i can recognize my own music, jongin. that's why i saw your performance on the boardwalk, and i remember thinking that the sun rose at the exact moment that the song stopped. after that i tried to monitor you -- sometimes i was lucky, sometimes i wasn't. and when you decided to sit beside me on the bus, well, can you blame me for keeping my mouth shut?"

"no, i can't," jongin admits.

kyungsoo hums. "you would have known right away. and i thought it would be fun to get to know you better before revealing who i really was."

 _fair enough,_ jongin thinks. "i love your voice," jongin blurts out.

kyungsoo's eyes widen in surprise and he laughs. "i love your dancing."

and there are thoughts that fly out of jongin's head, and wishes that he's seen come true, and maybe in the morning he'll wake up with a starburst of wonder that's hard to snuff out. for a moment the earth stops revolving and time stops dripping past, and there's just the two of them frozen in the moonlight.

this is discovery, the prologue to a story of two people who are intertwined in the subtlest ways, and it's different worlds colliding in a vacuum. and tonight half the world's awake, but no one has any idea of this moment happening.

they are two beings built on uncertainty, and every second they're breaking against the constraints of black and white. and somehow jongin likes that, he likes the idea of painting the world with imagination, and no matter the medium he knows the hues of art are still the same.

he's seen the proof.

 

 

 

 

jongin lets go of kyungsoo's hand in front of the latter's house, and he feels the tingle of new ideas racing through his veins. they don't say anything -- they simply share the comfort of _see you soon_ and _we'll meet again_.

this isn't love, not yet. but whatever it is, and whatever it will be, is more than enough for jongin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  



End file.
